Feed the Baby
She claimed her favorite author was Tom Wolfe.
The fact that she'd never read a single word he'd written, past the titles of a few of his works, didn't worry her. It was just a line to impress the guys. And, seeing as men read considerably less than women, it served her well.
One of her "attempts" was a guy who wound up showing up on the second date in full white suit regalia. All of which threw a little scare into her. When it turns out he'd only seen the picture on Wikipedia, without delving into the text at all (not that this would have necessarily helped or hindered him), she relaxed again. The other "attempt" she'd had over who brought a fresh copy of I Am Charlotte Simmons, reading passages from it, obviously trying to woo her, not realizing whatever it was he'd read, he'd either not fully comprehended it, or had thought the Literary Review's award for Bad Sex Writing was an ironic award. It was the point at which he hit the second "slither slither slither" instance that she couldn't hold her laughter in, and he left with the same bottle of wine with which he'd arrived.
Her favorite author was really Ross Thomas. Or Samuel Johnson. Sometimes she was in the mood for The Fourth Durango, sometimes she was in the mood for A Dictionary of the English Language. But she kept her front room bookshelves stocked with books she never intended to read.
She hoped, someday, to tell someone about her true loves, but didn't think it'd be coming any time soon.
disclaimer:
The head editor's arms work! The head editor's arms work! Calloo callay!
At any rate, one reason to celebrate the week. Oh, and we're not melting, with this issue. Which is a new thing for us.
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